“You do not wish,” said Anne, “to read the letter?”
Doris did not reply.
“It would make you less able to realize that he is—gone,” said Anne, gently.
“Yes,” said Doris, “and then it was to you,—not me.”
The other’s face was suffused with tender pity. She spoke impulsively, and yet with a timorous boldness, as one who ventures upon hazardous and novel ways:—
“Doris, he loved you with all his heart!”
“He told you?”
“Yes.”
“He spoke of you so often, Anne. We shall always be friends.”
“Yes, always.”